


perfect fit

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [152]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, hermann is so gone on newt, well hello i'm here to deliver a [checks paper] niche newmann au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23404786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann, a bespoke tailor of some renown, gets an interesting customer: Newton Geiszler
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [152]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	perfect fit

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt: Newt rolled his eyes. "I know, I know, he's your brother. It's gross. Get over it.""

Hermann usually doesn’t mind his customers—key word being _usually_. This one has been hovering inside his shop, not buying anything, or trying anything on, for the past half _hour_ , and it’s getting ridiculous.

“Is there something you _need?_ ” Hermann asks, pointedly, from behind the counter, where he’s been trying to sketch out a possible new design.

The man jumps a bit; whips around. “Oh, uh—sorry,” he laughs, “I didn’t see you there.”

Hermann stares at him flatly.

“No, I—I, yeah, um,” the man looks down; fingers fidgetting, and then blurts out, “this is my first time in _any_ sort of tailor’s shop, nevermind a, uh, a bespoke shop. I just…I don’t know what I need? I mean, I just, um, I just got invited to this huge family thing, and it’s, like, uber-formal, and I don’t, um, I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear…” he trails off.

Hermann sets his pencil down. “Well, then,” he says, “you’re in the right place. Black tie?”

The man shakes his head. “No, um, I don’t think so…the letter just said—here—” he digs it out from his jeans pocket; unfolding it, and makes his way over to Hermann, holding the paper out.

Hermann looks it over; raises a brow. “A Geiszler family function?” he says, “the Berliners?”

The man purses his lips. “Apparently I’ve got relatives who are upper class,” he says. “I, uh, I inherited some money recently and bam, suddenly everyone wants to meet me. The point is, I need formalwear, and they recommended I come to you, so…” he shrugs.

Hermann nods. “Alright,” he says, “well, I’ll need to take your measurements—do you have any sensitivities to cashmere?”

“No, why?”

“That’s what I was thinking to use,” Hermann explains, and comes out from behind the counter, brushing past the man to get to the cabinets where he keeps his notepads and measuring tapes. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind following me into the back room so I can take your measurements, I’ll be able to get something drawn up for the next time you come in.”

“Next time?” the man squawks.

Hermann gives him an impatient look. “This will take multiple visits, Mister…”

“Newt,” the man says. “Um. Newt Geiszler—”

“—Mister Geiszler. First, I will take your measurements; after that, I’ll sketch a rough draft of the finished piece, which you’ll then either accept or reject with suggestions on how you’d prefer it, and then, once we’ve come to an agreement, I shall create the piece for you.”

“…right,” says Geiszler.

Hermann nods to himself. “Right this way, Mister Geiszler,” he says, leading the man towards the back.

Once he’s got Geiszler there, the man finally stops fidgeting; which is good, because Hermann really does need these measurements to be precise, as he informs Geiszler as he takes the measure of his inseam. “Otherwise,” he says, “the piece would be—well, _ruined_ , frankly. A waste of everyone’s time.”

“R—right,” Geiszler says, an odd pitch to his voice. Hermann inspects the measure, notes the number, and then rises; begins to measure Geiszler’s inner arm. “You, uh, you seem kind of young to be a tailor,” Geiszler says, in what’s obviously an attempt to start conversation.

Hermann hums. “It’s been a long-time passion of mine,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate; marks down another number. “Ah, for the next measurement, I’ll need you to at least take off your coat,” he says, “otherwise, we risk the shirt being too large…”

“Huh—oh, yeah, sure, man,” Geiszler nods, springing, suddenly, back into action; shucking off the coat. Beneath it, he’s wearing a thin t-shirt, vibrant tattoos clearly visible on his skin. 

Hermann swallows thickly, wondering why the room suddenly feels so much warmer, and begins to take the measure on Geiszler’s chest. He ends with the tape between the man’s shoulders, trying not to stare, cross-eyed, at the tattoos creeping slightly up the exposed skin of his neck.

He drags his gaze away; remembering, barely, to note the measurement down on his notepad. “Alright,” he says, taking a step back.

“Right!” Geiszler says, tugging his coat back on. “Um—here, I should probably give you my number so you can get ahold of me when the sketch is done…” 

“Here,” Hermann says, and offers him the pen and notepad.

Geiszler takes them and flips a few pages; scribbles down a set of digits and hands them back to him. “There,” he says. “Um. Thanks, uh, for. For everything. Um. I should probably get going.” He offers an awkward smile and shoves his hands into his pockets, turning to go.

Hermann watches him leave, mouth unusually dry.

* * *

The next few days, he works on a few different pieces—there’s the one for Mister Pentecost and his husband, matching suits for some formal event, and the piece for the youngest Wei-Tang brother, and a few other smaller pieces like vests.

Geiszler’s, though, is the one that his mind keeps getting caught up in; he’ll spend hours staring blankly at the page, mind’s eye filled with images of vibrant tattoos and soft, light brown hair.

Finally, though, he manages it—grey shirt and a pair lightly pinstriped grey trousers and blazer. He hopes Geiszler agrees with his choice—the man will look quite… _nice_ in the outfit. For a second, he allows himself to imagine it—the fit of it around his shoulders, the soft of the cashmere…

He cuts that train of thought off quickly; scolds himself. That’s absolutely the _last_ thing he ought to be thinking about.

It takes a while to find the paper Geiszler left his number on; but eventually, Hermann does, and sends off a quick text letting him know that the sketch is done and he can come in tomorrow to see it, if he’d like.

He does. This time, he’s wearing low-rise shorts and a painfully short shirt that keeps riding up to expose the soft skin of his stomach, and makes Hermann’s mouth go dry every time. That’s made even worse by the fact that he realised the night before that he had misread the tape measure the other day, and Geiszler’s inseam measure is incorrect.

“I’ll have to take it again,” he says, hoping his voice is level. “Ah, it shouldn’t take me more than a quick moment.”

“Sure, man, whatever you need,” Geiszler replies, “do you need me in the back again, or…?”

“Ah—no, no, here is fine,” Hermann says, and curses himself for stammering slightly. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything _else_ as he takes the measurement. When he gets back up, picking up his cane from where he’s set it up against the counter, and leans on it as he takes the measurement down, though, he comments, off-handedly, “You really _do_ favour rather revealing attire, don’t you?”

Geiszler rolls his eyes. “Nah, man,” he says, “I think you’re just not used to hanging around people who don’t dress like my grandpa.”

“I didn’t say it was a _bad_ thing, necessarily,” Hermann says, before he can think better of it. “In fact, I can think of a number of outfits you’d look stunning in that would require even less fabric than your current one.”

Oh _God_.

His heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s pretty certain that if he squeezes the head of his cane much harder he’s going to—he’s going to crack it.

“…thanks?” Geiszler says, finally, and then: “uh—the sketch looks good, by the way.”

“Great!” Hermann says, and hopes to God that his face isn’t as red as it feels. “I’ll—I’ll let you know when it’s done!”

He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose; practically fleeing back behind the counter, gripping his cane like a life-line.

Geiszler, apparently getting the hint to some degree, takes his leave.

Hermann lets his head drop into his hands with a groan and hopes very, very, _very_ ardently that this passes quickly.

It absolutely _doesn’t_ , and isn’t _going to_ , he realises, two days later, sitting with one leg stretched out on the sofa in his small flat, a drawing pad and a pencil in hand, poised, mid-sketch, over what is most certainly _not_ in any way, shape, or form, a suit, but rather what one could, quite frankly, call _lingerie_.

This is in no way, shape or form related to Geiszler.

Sure, the general shape of the figure he’s sketched may be proportionally _similar_ , but this figure has neither a face, nor tattoos, and Geiszler _does_ have a face and a copious number of tattoos.

Hermann wonders, idly, how _many_ , exactly, he has, and how far they extend—

“Do _not_ think about that,” he says, sternly, and sets the pencil down; sets the sketchpad to the side, refusing to look at it, and then, after a moment, turns it over so that the sketch is facing down and no longer visible.

It does, however, unfortunately, awaken him to the painful reality of the fact that he is quite irresistibly attracted to Geiszler.

 _Bugger_.

* * *

Finally, it’s done; the fabric all pieced together, the stitching expertly hidden, the seams smoothed; dusted over with a lint roller to make sure that there’s no stray pieces of thread sticking to it anywhere.

That done, he picks up the phone and gives Geiszler a call. 

The line rings thrice, and then it picks up. “Hello?”

Hermann swallows. “Mister Geiszler,” he says. “This is Hermann Gottlieb—I was just calling to let you know that your suit is done.”

There’s a rustle—papers? And then Geiszler says, “Sweet! I’ll come pick it up at, like, seven-thirty?? My office hours end at seven, so…”

Hermann nods, even though he knows the other can’t see it. “Alright,” he says, “ah. Good day. See you later.”

“See you later,” Geiszler echoes, and then the line goes dead.

Hermann spends the rest of the day only half-present; he assists a few customers in finding things, and takes measurements for a few others, and puts in an order for a few bolts of fabric he’s running low on, but mostly, his mind is occupied by the thought of Geiszler’s impending arrival.

Seven-thirty comes and goes without the other man’s appearance; and Hermann can’t help but look up every time the bell on the door jingles. Finally, around ten to eight, the bell rings again.

Hermann glances up; sees Geiszler.

“Sorry if I’m running a bit late,” the other says, and digs out a chequebook and a pen from the messenger-bag he’s got slung over his shoulder. “One of my students needed some extra help—uh, how much do you want me to make it out for?”

Hermann pulls out his notepad; names the amount and watches as Geiszler signs the cheque with a flourish. “Two n’s, right?” he asks; and Hermann nods.

“Yes,” he says, and passes Geiszler the parcel with the suit in it. “There’s a changing room in the back as well, if you’d like to try it on.”

Geiszler brightens. “That’d be great,” he says, “thanks, man.”

With that, he disappears into the back, leaving Hermann with the cheque and the lingering image of bright eyes and a quick smile.

A few moments later, Geiszler’s voice comes from the back. “Do you, uh, do you have a mirror…?”

He does, in fact—sitting behind him. Hermann curses himself slightly. He must have forgotten to put it back in there after he brought it out to clean it. “Yes,” he calls back, “it’s, ah, it’s out here, though.”

“That’s fine!” Geiszler says, and appears, a moment later.

Hermann tries not to stare at him and probably fails.

The jacket fits him perfectly, and the soft shirt goes with it wonderfully, and, in truth, he looks—well, he looks _fantastic_. “The mirror’s back here,” he croaks, finally. “By the—by the register. Let me get it for you—”

He rises; one hand on his cane, and grips the mirror; lugging it, a bit awkwardly, out from behind the counter. Geiszler’s short enough that he can view himself fully in it, and he takes a moment to; turning from side to side to get a better view.

Finally, he looks up at Hermann. “It’s great,” he says, “thanks. Really.”

“Of—of course,” Hermann says; not meeting his gaze.

There’s silence, for a moment, and then Geiszler says, “Um—so, about the family gathering thing…I kind of need a date, and, stop me if I’m reading this wrong, but, um, would you—go with me? Maybe?”

“ _What?_ ” Hermann nearly squeaks.

“Oh, okay,” Geiszler deflates slightly, “um—”

“No, no, not—just _surprised_ ,” Hermann says. “I’d—I’d love to. Um. I’m sorry, you never _did_ tell me your first name…”

Geiszler laughs slightly. “Newton,” he says. “Newton Geiszler.”

“Newton,” Hermann repeats, and smiles. “I’d love to go with you, Newton.”

“Great!” Newton says, “um, I kind of need your number, though—”

“Right!” Hermann says, shaking himself a bit, and jots his number down on a piece of paper, thrusting it out to the other. “Ah. Text me?”

“Yeah,” Newton says, a smile curling at his lips. “I will.”

* * *

The family event is three months down the line, according to Newton, so Hermann has plenty of time to get his things in order. When he’s not working, he’s texting Newton; they bond easily over text and Hermann often finds himself staying up later than is probably strictly advisable in order to talk to him.

Finally, the day of comes; Newton picks him up at nine after Hermann closes up the shop, and they drive for a few hours.

“So you’re going to this _why_ exactly?” Hermann asks, looking out the window. It’s not the first time he’s asked it—Newton’s complained about this repeatedly.

Newton hums; turns on the radio to something that’s thankfully _not_ rock music. “Appearances,” he says, “also, I wasn’t sure how to say no without getting like, lowkey disowned, and a lot of them are in the academic world, which would be…not great.”

“Hmm,” Hermann says, “fair enough.”

Newton couldn’t bear to take a hit to his career; the man loves his job almost as much as he loves bizarely-named, multi-coloured drinks. It’s really quite admirable—and the man is _good_ at what he teaches; a forerunner in his chosen field.

Outside the window, the trees fly by. Hermann rests his head against the headrest and lets his eyes slip shut.

“Hermann?”

Hermann blinks groggily. “Are we there?” he asks, adjusting his glasses; they’ve slipped in his sleep.

Newton nods. “Yeah,” he says, “you’ve been asleep for like three hours.”

“Ah,” says Hermann, and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Well, then.”

Newton gives him a soft smile. “Thanks for coming with me,” he murmurs, and open his door. Hermann repeats the action with his own door a moment later.

The event goes fine; Hermann’s well-versed in socialising in such environments, and he coaches Newton through it without being obvious with what he’s doing when the other freezes up. He’s just as glad as Newton is, though, when it finally is acceptable to leave.

“God,” Newton groans, as they walk back towards the car. “I feel _drained_.”

Hermann gives a sympathetic hum; settles a hand onto the other’s shoulder. “It doesn’t get any easier, I’m afraid,” he says.

“Can I get, like, blacklisted from these things without it having ramifications on my career?” Newton grumbles; leaning into Hermann’s touch; and then sighs. “Seriously, though, thanks for being there with me. I don’t know if I could have gotten through it with my sanity intact without you.”

Hermann offers a small smile. “Of course,” he says.

He doesn’t fall asleep on the way back; instead winds up talking with Newton about, of all things, the _stars_. The other knows quite a bit about them, to Hermann’s surprise, and Newton gives a sheepish shrug. “I kinda have a hard time picking things,” he says, “so I bounced around a lot between majors. I’ve got a bachelor’s in astronomy.”

Once they get back within city limits, Hermann gives him directions to his flat. 

Newton walks him to his flat, which is quite charming of him, and makes Hermann’s stomach twist and flutter not unpleasantly.

“Goodnight, Newton,” he says, after he unlocks the door, and when he meets his gaze, Newton’s eyes flick down to his lips and back up again, and, oh, what the _hell_. “May I kiss you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Newton, and so Hermann does; gripping him by the lapels. Newton has to tilt his head up a bit because of the height difference, but really, it’s quite nice.

When Hermann breaks away, the other’s looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, and Hermann says, after he catches his breath, “Would you like to—come inside? Tomorrow is Saturday,” he adds, after a beat.

Newton nods. “Yeah,” he says, and follows Hermann inside.

They’re both too tired, frankly, for anything; so they end up curled together on Hermann’s bed, Newton in one of Hermann’s extra pairs of night-clothes, watching one of the movies Hermann manages to get to work on his frankly embarrassingly old laptop.

Once it’s over, Hermann finds he’s rather famished; and a quick conversation with Newton lets him know the other is as well; so Hermann rises and pads into the kitchen to make them something to eat.

Newton follows him out, but winds up poking around in the living room. Hermann lets him—really all he has in there are books and a few board games and sketch-books and such, and a few boxes of fabric scraps.

He’s just gotten done plating the omelettes when he looks up to find Newton scrutinising one of the sketchbooks. “Is this _me?_ ” he asks, looking up at Hermann.

Hermann does his best to not drop the plate he’s holding.

“ _Pardon?_ ”

“Is this me?” Newton asks, again, and turns the sketch-book so that he can see it. “I mean, there’s no tattoos, or anything, but I’m like, seventy-two percent sure that’s me, in, uh, _significantly_ less fabric than I usually wear. Which is, like, _flattering_ , but also, dude, uh, _what?_ ”

Hermann hopes he’s not as red as he feels, because his cheeks feel like they’re on _fire_.

“I…the model _may_ be inspired,” he allows, hoping his voice doesn’t crack. 

Newton cackles. “Dude,” he says, “you were, like, _so_ fucking gone, oh my god. I mean, so was I, so _am_ I, but like—shit, man,” he laughs, again.

“Shut up,” Hermann grumbles, and sets the plates onto the bar counter. Newton, though, isn’t paying attention; he’s pulled out a—ah. Right. Hermann had forgotten he’d actually _made_ it.

“I’m going to put it on,” Newton announces, and disappears into the bathroom. Hermann does his best to control his embarrassment, though probably not to any real degree.

A few moments later, Newton reappears. “You know, dude,” he says, conversationally, as if he’s not wearing a scandalously scarce amount, “you should, like, start a line. This is actually really nice? I mean, seriously, dude, people would pay top-notch for this shit.”

“Glad to see you’re enjoying,” Hermann deadpans.

“As if _you’re_ not,” Newton shoots back; which, alright, _technically_ fair.

Hermann stares very hard at the plate before him. “You ought to come eat,” he says, “it’s not going to get any warmer.”

* * *

“And _that_ ,” Hermann says, inclining his head, “is my father.”

They’re at another formal family function; this time, Hermann’s. Newton raises a brow. “ _Him?_ ” he says, “you guys are _related?_ I can’t see it.”

“Thank you, darling,” Hermann says, drily. “Please do try and behave, he’s going to come over here at some point before we leave, and I’d rather this not devolve into the two of you screaming at each other.”

Newton huffs. “Have a _little_ bit of faith in me,” he says.

“I do. I am not, however, blindly optimistic,” Hermann retorts. “Now: please?”

“…alright,” Newton says.

Hermann lets out a sigh. “Thank you,” he says.

Lars comes over sooner rather than later; glares at where Newton’s holding onto Hermann’s arm. “Father,” Hermann greets, cooly, hoping this stays civil.

“Hermann,” Lars returns, “I see your class hasn’t improved.”

Hermann sighs. “ _Must_ we do this every time?” he asks, but Lars is already talking over him.

“Really, Hermann,” he says, “pursuing tailoring was one thing, but you really _must_ abandon this foolishness—there’s so many _better_ things you could be doing.”

“Hey, dude,” Newton snaps, from Hermann’s side, “I’ll have you know, he’s _doing—_ ”

Hermann hits his leg with his cane. “Thank you for the _advice_ , father,” he says, tightly, “but the only folly here is your belief that you can control me. Now, unless you’ve got something else to say to me, I suggest you _get gone_.”

Lars scowls at him; but, thankfully, takes the hint.

“He’s a _dick_ ,” Newton says.

“Tell me about it,” Hermann grumbles.

Newton squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry you have to put up with him,” he says, and presses a quick kiss to Hermann’s cheek. “D’you want to watch a movie at my place and eat ice-cream from the carton when we get done here?”

Hermann smiles, slightly; a bit of the tension draining from his frame. “That sounds lovely,” he says, “thank you, Newton.”

“‘Course,” Newton grins, “whatever makes you happy.”

* * *

“Hermann?”

Hermann doesn’t look up; he’s busy taking measurements; but he calls, “Yes?”

“You forgot your nice shears at home!” Newton says, from the front of the shop. “I brought them down for you. Also, there’s some of those cookies you like from that one bakery—you didn’t eat anything before you left this morning.”

Hermann smiles softly to himself. “Thank you,” he says, “ah, just put them behind the counter—you know where.”

“Will do,” Newton replies.

“Sibling?” asks the man he’s measuring, whom Hermann had, quite frankly, almost forgotten about. Hermann lets out a sharp, startled burst of laughter at the words.

“No,” he says, once he catches his breath. “No—no.”

There’s a moment of silence and then the man says, as if he’s just realised something mildly horrifying, “ _Oh_. Jesus—okay. Well.”

“I’ll have it ready for your review in two week’s time,” Hermann says, curling the tape measure back up; sticks it in his pocket.

Hirschel takes a step back; opens his mouth, seeming to want to say something, and then, apparently, thinks better of it; instead just picks up a set of pocket squares and takes them to the front. Hermann follows after and rings him.

After Hirschel leaves, Hermann sneaks a glance beneath the counter, and smiles when he sees the brown paper bag Newton left there, and pulls it out.

There’s the pair of shears he likes, and he takes those out and sets them on the counter, and then takes out the package wrapped in parchment; undoes the twine and takes a moment to bask in the scent of the still slightly warm cookies.

He eats one, and then another and then, because he can, a third; silently thanks Newton, because he was, in fact, rather famished. After that, though, he wraps them back up and puts them back beneath the counter for later and checks his calendar.

There’s a few things to do, and tomorrow the bolts of fabric he ordered will arrive, and—

He groans as he catches sight of, in his own handwriting, the weekend. Right—they’ve been invited to yet _another_ Geiszler extended family function, to which Hermann _knows_ for a fact that his father and siblings have been as well—high society and such.

Lovely.

Well, at least he has Newton by his side for this.

* * *

That, actually, turns out to be almost more of a _hindrance_ , actually.

It was fine at first; Newton’s picked up some of the manners expected, and as such, hasn’t made too much of a fool of himself; but about an hour in, one of the caterers—several of whom have been going around the ridiculously large ballroom with trays of drinks and small plates of food—comes by and offers Newton some cake.

That would be _fine_ , if it had _just_ been cake.

Unfortunately, it _wasn’t_ , a fact which neither of them noticed until Newton had already eaten _multiple_ pieces, at which point he turns to Hermann and says, “Hermann, I think these are acohol cakes.”

“ _What?_ ” Hermann hisses.

“Yeah,” Newton says, and takes another bite, “yep, I’m pretty sure these have been doused in some sort of liquor.”

“That’s…disgusting,” Hermann says. “You only _just_ noticed?”

“I wasn’t paying attention!” Newton protests. “And they taste pretty good, actually. You should have one.”

Hermann wrinkles his nose. “I’ll pass,” he says.

Newton shrugs and finishes off the piece.

Now, if that had been it, it would have been fine. However, in what could only be Geiszlerian luck, when Hermann had gone off to use the restroom, Newton had elected to stay behind in the ballroom, and now, Hermann can’t _find_ him.

“Gottlieb!” calls a voice, and he turns to see a portly man making his way over to him—Albert…Vance? He’s fairly certain, anyway; the man’s been in his shop once or twice, if he remembers correctly.

“Yes,” he asks, hoping it doesn’t come off too curtly; he really _would_ like to find Newton. 

“Gottlieb,” Vance says, again. “M’boy, you would not _believe_ the things I’ve been hearing about you!”

“Oh dear,” Hermann murmurs; but Vance is already continuing.

“Ryan, you know, Ryan Hirschel? Well, he’s been going around saying something about how he saw a man wearing a _tie-dye_ shirt and sweatpants come into your shop,” he gives Hermann a critical look. “Really, Gottlieb, you ought to have some _standards_. And all this nonsense about the lingerie line—why, I don’t know what to think!”

“He’s way beneath your league,” chimes in the young man—his son, Hermann’s fairly sure—who’s come over.

“I suggest you reserve your judgement,” Hermann snaps, “considering your own subpar attire—is that jacket off the rack?”

The man goes bright red; sputtering. “Still—!”

“And if you must _know,_ ” Hermann adds, “he was only dressed in my clothing because he didn’t have classes to teach that day and had stayed over at my flat. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find my _boyfriend_.”

He _does_ find Newton in the end; in fact, the man’s with Bastien, who looks like he regrets everything in his life that has led up to this moment. Newton’s saying something about the labs that he’s having his students do. Hermann stifles a smile.

“Hello, brother. Newton,” he adds, “how about you stop bothering Bastien—it’s getting late and we ought to get going.”

Newton’s face brightens; he turns and presses a kiss to Hermann’s cheek. Bastien makes a face, and Newt rolls his eyes. “I know, I know, he’s your brother. It’s gross. Get over it.”

Hermann coughs in an attempt to hide the laughter that bubbles out of him involuntarily. “Let’s get going, Newton,” he says, putting a hand on the other’s arm, “I’m sure Bastien has things to be doing as well.”

“Literally _anything_ ,” Bastien mutters.

Newton grins at him. “Hermann does—”

“Good _night_ ,” Hermann says, loudly, and steers Newton towards the exit.

* * *

“And that’s how we got blacklisted from like 75% of all Geiszler extended family events,” Newton finishes smugly.

Jacob raises a brow; though the bad quality of the video call means that it looks more like a smudge of brown rises on his face. “I need to get a boyfriend to annoy my family into not inviting me to these stupid things,” he muses.

“You’re in luck, then,” Hermann deadpans, “one of my customers needs an excuse to get out of some event of his own—I’ll give you his number and the two of you can work it out.”

The elder Geiszler brightens. “ _Sweet,_ ” he says, and pulls out a piece of paper and a pen.

After the call ends, Newton shakes his head at Hermann. “I can’t believe you set up my dad with Herc’s brother,” he says; bemused.

Hermann shrugs. “I think they’ll like each other,” he says. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
